Hindsight
by Lala Kate
Summary: Two families have a special encounter over one very unique dog.
1. Chapter 1

_This is a belated offering for OQ week on tumblr, a sort of "Adoption Day" drabble. I hope you enjoy it. I thought it was lengthy enough to post as a stand-alone. Many thanks to the amazing starscythe for the inspiration for this story._

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It's his scent she first notices. Clean. Woodsy. A mixture of pine and earth muted by the sweat of physical work and dirt beneath the fingernails. It's a scent she likes, one she finds appealing and soft, not soft in the sense of cotton or silk, but rather in the manner of moss, or grass, or piles of freshly fallen leaves left alone for the enjoyment of children and the occasional spontaneous adult.

He moves towards her then.

His warmth approaches in steady strides, not to fast, not too slow. He stops a comfortable distance from her, allowing soft billows of air brushed by human breath and skin to tickle her senses, giving her a moment to size him up as best she can at a first meeting.

"Miss Mills?"

His voice is deep, but not overly so, a bit rough around the edges yet plump with gentleness. It's a texture that reminds her of a broken in quilt, one that's been hand-stitched and pieced together with care, one capable of warding off the chills of life by its mere presence and pliability. A good sign, she thinks, especially for a man who does what he does, and she allows herself to take a step forward, extending her hand with what she hopes is a confident smile.

"Regina," she clarifies. The hand that greets hers is neither soft nor rough, but one of a working man who takes care of himself but doesn't bother with niceties. "And you're Mr. Locksley?"

His grip is firm, not painful, and his hands smell of Irish Spring soap. She scrunches her nose without thinking as fragments of clover and mint dust through her nostrils and into her sinuses, simultaneously noting a coarseness to his skin she rather likes.

"Robin," he states. His grin gives his voice a melodic lilt. "Please—just Robin."

He's closer now, and her pores react as if on cue. He's taller than she is, she realizes, feeling his breath feather across top of her hair, and although she's not sure why that should matter, she finds that she is pleased by the fact.

"Robin," she echoes, noting that he steps in just hair nearer as she utters his name. He clears his throat as he shifts slightly on his feet, and she hears him rub the back of his neck with the hand that isn't clutching hers.

"You're here to meet Miss Belle, then?" he asks, releasing her hand, exposing it to the coolness of empty air. She misses the warmth immediately and clutches the stick she holds in her other hand even tighter.

"Miss Belle?" she questions, hearing Henry's hurried approach from behind. He's breathing somewhat heavily as he moves to her side, the keys dangling noisily from his fingers, and she makes a mental note to discuss with him just how much is too much after-shave for a sixteen year old to wear.

"Short for the name my son bestowed upon her," Robin explains, his attention now divided between mother and son. "Tinkerbelle."

"Strange name for a Labrador," Henry muses with a laugh, piping down rather quickly when she shoots him a reprimanding look. "Sounds more like a name for a little dog."

"Not necessarily," Robin contradicts, his tone infused with the texture of warm honey, hinting at a wry grin and well-exercised sense of humor. "Wait until you've met her. She's a beauty, our Miss Belle, both inside and out." His stance shifts, and he extends his hand, the denim of his jacket whispering into the space between them. "I'm Robin Locksley."

"Henry Mills," her son replies, shaking the man's hand with enthusiasm.

"She's white, if I'm remembering correctly," Regina notes, now more than anxious to meet the canine that has brought them here, a nearly forty mile drive from their home, one she entrusted to her son with more than a small amount of trepidation.

"She is," Robin confirms. He rubs his hands together quickly, the sound vaguely reminiscent of soft leather rubbing up against freshly sanded wood. "And she's my son's favorite of all the dogs we are training. I apologize ahead of time if he gets emotional while you're getting to know her. He knows we can't keep her, but…"

There's a catch in his voice, one of a parent knowing that life is about to sting his child.

"Children become attached so easily," she offers, sensing his smile of gratitude. "Henry was that way with Merlin. The two of them forged an instant connection, even though he was technically my dog."

His resulting sigh is heavy.

"I'm sorry for your loss," he states. "Dogs, especially dogs like these are irreplaceable."

Tears sting her eyelids, swelling stubbornly until two break free and forge parallel tracks down her cheeks. She wipes them away as quickly as she can, hoping he didn't notice, fairly certain that he did.

"Shall we introduce you, then?"

She hiccups slightly, trying her best to disguise the indiscretion by clearing her throat.

"I suppose so," she answers, despising the nerves threatening to pull her under at this juncture in their lives. God, she hates this, times when she's certain her face is giving her away. It's at moments like these when she balks at the unfairness of it all, that others are given an advantage she'll never again possess, that her emotions sometimes betray her no matter how schooled she's become in reining them in and holding them close. They have color, oddly enough, her emotions, sometimes taste and texture, as well. She's currently awash in muted swirls of gray and white, yet there are blurred strokes of earth tones just beside her, tones that infuse his soft baritone and make her relax a measure at the mere proximity of his presence.

"Let's go, Mom," Henry cuts in, his brightness moving towards her as he takes her hand and gives it a squeeze of reassurance. His nails are rough, his skin as warm as towels freshly taken out of the dryer. She loves the feel of his hands-the feel of home. "Let's go meet Miss Belle."

"Let's," she agrees, hearing two distinct muted grunts of laughter that naturally accompany smiles. She clasps on to them for good measure, cradling them close, absorbing the strands that tingle like starlight, pressing them into her ribs and skin. She then extends her arm, taking a hesitant step forward as they move out of the shade and into the sun. It stings her cheeks, and she raises her face towards the sky, careful to follow the footfalls of the man in front of her as she breathes in the air of where he lives. It's open and free here, noise is sparse and travels without restriction, including the light clicks she makes on the smoothly paved walkway that takes them into the heart of the training grounds. Sounds and smells are borne upon breezes that move without interference, tugging at her skirt, brushing past her neck, making her long for a place like this for her and Henry to live in rather than the apartment they rent in the city. But its convenience that keeps them there-proximity to her workplace and his school paramount in choosing a place both suitable and comfortable for their family of two.

"How long have you been running this place?" she questions, his gait coming to a halt a few feet in front of her.

"Five years now," he answers. There's something else there, something hidden away in his voice, a shadow peeking out without permission, pecking on her shoulder, whispering in her ear. "My wife and I built this place together."

The word wife rubs against her in the wrong way-abrasive, intrusive-and she shrugs it off immediately, knowing she has no right to harbor such odd sensations, especially when the word was voiced with such reverence.

"Is she here?" she asks, schooling her voice and tone into threads of raw silk.

"In a manner of speaking," he answers. "She's buried by the stream at the edge of our property, under her favorite tree."

The words shatter at her feet. She feels their shards scrape her ankles as a heaviness infuses her lungs.

"I'm sorry," she answers, reaching out to touch his bicep, rubbing her fingertips against worn denim as his muscle flexes instinctively underneath.

"It's alright," he states, even though she knows that it isn't. She drops her hand from his jacket.

They're close to the kennel now, the smell of clean dogs is pungent and alive. It weaves around her, tugging her forward into a doorframe of coarse wood she caresses with care. There is activity here, canine and human, their mingled scents calling forward memories that both embrace and cut. It's her moment of truth, she muses, realizing she's anxious over whether or not the dog will actually like her.

How her mother would chide her for such childish notions.

She tries to swallow down her nerves, knowing Miss Belle won't be Merlin-no other dog can ever be Merlin-but hoping the two of them will hit it off well enough to begin building a bond. Her life has felt so restricted since they lost him, and it's been hard on both her and Henry, damned frustrating, if she's honest with herself. She can't stomach being dependent, can't stand having to ask her teenaged son for things she and Merlin had tackled with aplomb for most of Henry's life.

Its then she feels a touch to her arm, a large, confident hand applying just enough pressure to feel assuring but far from dominant. It's a touch she welcomes.

"She's just here," Robin tells her, and she takes another step towards the dog, biting her lower lip, reminding herself to breathe in and out as she allows him to help her kneel down gracefully. It's then she realizes that someone else is sitting just in front of her.

He smells of fresh dirt, bubble gum toothpaste and dog hair, and she can't help but smile as the boy shuffles nervously, obviously taking her in from his seat on the ground beside Miss Belle.

"You're here for Miss Belle?"

His voice is tentative, and he sniffs then, once, twice before his father moves to kneel beside both of them. The man's warmth is a balm, one she cannot quite understand or categorize but lets rush over her with the freshness of a mountain stream.

"This is Miss Regina," Robin explains, his touch on her arm still soft and assured.

"Miss 'Gina," the boy repeats, and she laughs, she can't help it. He sounds five or six, older than four but by no means seven or eight. "I'm Roland. And this is Miss Belle."

Small fingers take her hand, and the boy's father removes his touch from her elbow, allowing her the freedom to extend her arm towards warm fur and an even warmer tongue. The dog licks her, sniffs her, then nuzzles her head beneath her hand, breaking a wall of reserve inside of her she's been constructing since they'd lost Merlin. The coarse fur invites her fingers to lose themselves in its depths, and they do as tears form through yellowed hues of relief.

"Miss Belle," she voices, not caring that her voice is broken and full of life. "I'm Regina."

They're matched. She feels it already.

"She likes you," Roland states, and she leans into the dog, relishing the contact that wafts through pores and nerves to the core of who she is. The white lab is a mixture of vanilla, shampoo and earth, so different than the cinnamon that was Merlin, yet comforting all the same.

"I like her, too," she replies, hearing two decidedly masculine sniffs over her shoulder.

"I can tell," Henry laughs. "She's a beauty, mom. Just like you."

"You don't have to butter me up," she smirks, remembering how rebellious her hair had felt this morning, stubborn strands waving in all the wrong places. For some reason, she wonders how it looks now. "You're already driving home."

Robin laughs at that, a musical, fuzzy sound that brushes over her arms like fleece.

"Forgive me," the man adds, the emotion in his voice palpable. He's still kneeling beside her, Henry's standing to her left, and Roland is still touching her arm, just in front of her, still attached to the dog, still taking care of Miss Belle. "I love what I do, but I don't always get this emotional when one of our dogs finds her match. I think you two were meant for each other."

"So do I," she agrees, her world now awash in pinks and yellows, as if the sun is washing over her insides, painting them in its own whimsical hues. "It's odd how things like this just happen."

There's a pause that carries meaning, a movement beside her that allows his body to barely brush up against her own.

"Yes," he murmurs, his tone so personal she wonders if he's even moved his lips. "It is."

A sniff in front of her alerts her to the fact that this is difficult for the smallest member of their assembly, and she reaches out to touch Roland's arm, clasping it gently when he offers no resistance.

"I'll take good care of her. I promise."

The boy goes practically boneless as he moves into her space, the lingering scent of oatmeal on his breath somehow nudging its way inside her. He touches her face, something that astonishes her, something that catches her completely by surprise. Small fingers begin to map the contours of her face, touching her forehead, her eyebrows, her nose, cheekbones and mouth, his palms cupping her when he finishes, a new connection now forged, one of shining metal wrapped in sweets and cotton.

Roland is blind, too. Just like her.

"You are beautiful," the boy states, and she's crying now. She' can't help it, and she lays her hands over his, the small ones still attached to her face. Yet his touch moves far beyond the physical, reaching inside of her and squeezing her heart, branding her, marking her, binding the two of them together in a world of sound, smell and touch.

"May I?" she asks, and he nods, knowing she wants to see him, too. His skin is soft, bearing the texture only young children possess, one that begs to be snuggled and kissed and tucked in at night after rounds of stories and hugs. His nose is pert, his brows thick enough to match the curls that fall recklessly over his forehead, curls that bounce and smell faintly of baby shampoo. He giggles as her nails graze his cheek, revealing deep dimples that quickly catch her attention and make her grin in response. Then she traces the contours of his eyes, eyes that should be seeing the world around him rather than abandoning him at such a young age. They're round and full, those eyes of his, and she somehow knows they're dark like her own, that Roland is made of chocolate and midnight, that he is a kindred spirit in more realms than those simply devoid of sight.

"What a handsome young man you are, Roland," she states, and he giggles again, his father sniffing beside him, affected as much by this as she. His emotions are transparent, they roll off of him in crystal waves of salt, of loss mixed with hope, of determination fueled by a personal crusade, of single parent meets struggling adult.

"You learned to train service dogs after Roland was born," she muses, and she feels him nod beside her. It's then she realizes there is another dog present, one lying perfectly still at Roland's feet. It's Roland's dog, she knows it without needing confirmation from anyone. He's the boy's eyes, his guide, his companion in a world that is inherently solitary, even when people press in.

"Little John was our first," Robin states, reaching out hand to gently caress the bearer of that name just in front of them. "Once we started, we couldn't stop. It became a passion for me and for Marian, and after she died…"

He breaks off again, remnants of grief playing tug of war with the passionate resilience she senses in this man.

"Well, I knew she'd want me to keep this going. For Roland. And for me."

She wants to touch him but knows she doesn't have the right.

"I'm glad you did," she states. "Think of all the people you're helping." She wonders if he'll touch her again instead.

He doesn't.

She could get used to these people, she realizes with a start, could enjoy their nearness and easy manner, could revel in their scents and broken, earthy textures. But she no longer has a reason to stay here, her decision has been made, the only thing now left for them to do together the simple working out of finalities and arrangements. Icy wisps of pale blue wrap around her shins from the bottom up. She doesn't want to leave.

"Shall I deliver her to you on Friday? Or do you need some time to think things over?"

She shakes her head, allowing Robin to help her stand upright again, wondering why his touch reminds her of summer. Her legs ache from the prolonged crouched position, and he grunts in understanding as she stretches her lower back.

"I can't stay in that position for a long time, either," he muses, his words feathering across her ear. Perhaps it's her emotional state, the rawness of the moment, the loss of Merlin, the touch of his son, but she can't fight the heat that rushes to her face and pools in her cheeks at his nearness. She's blushing, she knows it. And Robin can see.

"Friday will be fine," she replies, gathering her lost composure back to herself as quickly as she can manage. "Henry?"

She hears her son rustling in his jacket pockets as he locates and extracts the paper she'd had him write, one that contains her contact information and their address.

"You live near Marco's Pizzeria?" he questions, and she nods, hearing a deep chuckle in response. "Roland and I don't go into the city all that often, but when we do, we always make sure to stop and eat at Marco's."

"It's our favorite, too," Henry adds as he moves to stand beside her. "We eat there at least once a week."

She senses a shift, a crossing of an invisible border as Robin's body temperature rises in time with her own. He's sweating, she realizes, such knowledge making her smile and sweat a bit herself.

"Perhaps we can all go out for a bite together once we've introduced Miss Belle to her new home," he proposes, the timbre of his voice about a third higher than it had been just seconds earlier. "That is, if the two of you are game."

She feels her son's eyes on her face, and she laces her fingers together, wondering how they're so icy when the rest of her is burning up.

"We're game," she states, Robin's and Henry's joined sighs of relief brushing her skin from both sides at once. She smiles then, understanding that Robin is as nervous about all of this as she is.

Good.

"How about you, Roland?"

The sound of rubber meeting wood draws ever nearer as the boy's sneakers deliver him back to her touch. He takes her hand before answering her question, she accepts it readily, and their fingers intertwine, a visual representation for those who can see it of what has already happened between the two of them in secret.

"I'm always game for pizza," Roland answers, and they laugh in time together, wrapping the four of them in translucent rainbows they can all feel everywhere at once.


	2. Chapter 2

She likes his cologne.

It's a new one, one that delivers just enough of a slow burn that shoots from her sinuses to her breasts like forbidden lava. He always smells good, but his scent is usually more natural, more of a blend of parent and professional rather than that of raw man. But tonight, he's wearing something different, something special, something she knows is just for her. The thought zings her in places she's all but forgotten.

"I hope the boys are having a good time."

He chuckles at this, the chocolate texture of his voice rubbing delectably across every nerve she has. She longs to know the taste of him-of his mouth, his skin, to see if it matches the description her other senses have wickedly conjured when she lies alone in the silence of her bedroom, feeling her body come alive in ways it hasn't for more than a decade.

Being on a real date with Robin Locksley is akin to walking into a bakery and having to wait your turn in line just to get a sample. She's already salivating, and they've just finished dinner.

"They're hanging out at the house with take-out from Marco's and a pile of movies and games," he states, the chair creaking as he leans back into the wood, making a sound deep in his throat that lets her know he's as full as she is. "I honestly wonder if they've even realized we've gone."

She smiles at this-hell, she's been smiling all evening, so much so that her cheeks are starting to ache. Her face is warm, her skin pink, no doubt, and she only hopes her hair still possesses some semblance of normalcy as often as she's tucked it behind her ear over the past two hours.

"Henry was excited to get to spend the evening with Roland," she utters. "He's hoping to teach him how to play Wizard's Chess tonight."

Their boys have bonded as one night at Marco's Pizzeria turned into two, as the suggestion to go to a movie ended up in an impromptu sleepover at her place, Roland sharing a bed with Henry while Robin's presence on her over-sized sofa kept her awake and restless in her own bed for more than two hours. There had been a bonfire at his place the next Saturday, hot dogs and s'mores roasted outdoors as they sat on hay bales and huddled under old quilts, later warming themselves with apple cider and Yahtzee as the sounds of the country filtered through thick log walls and paned windows. She had allowed herself to fall asleep against him as they sprawled out on his sofa, his chest hard yet comfortable beneath her cheek, the masculine scent of pine wafting into her dreams, teasing her while she slept and making her wake up the following morning feeling delicious, just a little bit wicked and warm from the inside out.

But this is the first time they've been alone. And she's more than a little nervous.

His chair scrapes the floor beneath them in her direction, bringing that addictive cologne of his so close she wants to strip naked and wrap herself up in it.

"Henry was excited?" he echoes. "Roland was the one who was so bouncy I nearly sedated him before you two arrived. I heard him plotting with Little John earlier over all of the things he had planned for them to do tonight. I believe carving a Jack-O-Lantern topped the list."

His hand brushes hers from across the table, making her throat swell and her nipples stand at attention. She wonders if he can see them through her sweater, if perhaps she should have chosen a looser cut for a first official date, but the way his thumb is tracing patterns on the top of her hand has her mind swirling in beams of silver and copper, the sensations he's awakening making her arms prickle with what she thinks must be fairy dust tickling the surface of her skin.

She hasn't felt like this in an age.

"Henry's the perfect babysitter for Roland, you know," he continues, the feel of his fingers on her knuckles making her wish their check would arrive post haste. "I've never felt comfortable leaving him with someone before tonight, but knowing that Henry is used to…"

He stops then, the thick texture of embarrassment sticking to his throat.

"What? Taking care of a blind person?"

She hears the ice clatter in his water glass, noticing this hasty swallow is far louder than his others have been.

"That's not what I meant to say, Regina. I'm sorry."

His discomfort is stifling yet sweet, so strong she can smell it, and she turns her hand palm up, cupping his with a measure of hesitation. His fingers flutter around hers, unsure yet certain, and she licks her lips, feeling like her eighteen year old self rather than a thirty-six year old woman.

"I know you take care of yourself, that you're more than capable of handling life than most people I've met, but you know as well as I do that making your way in a sighted world can be tough on someone without it. Especially-"

He pauses, his tone hurried, his words tumbling over and into one another.

"Especially a child," she finishes for him, melting into the manner his hand squeezes hers.

"Yes." There's a tinge of pain there, his tone conveying the ache of a father who knows his son will never experience a world most take for granted. "I love our life, Regina, what Roland and I have built, what I do, the people I meet because of it." He draws some sort of design on her palm and wrist with the tip of one finger, one that feels otherworldly-Elvish, perhaps, one that somehow makes her feel like immortality clad in dark denim and a cashmere sweater. "But there are times…"

The drawing stops, his breath hitching as she leans in closer.

"There are times it just hits me-how unfair it all is."

He's honest-he's always honest with her, something she appreciates, a change she welcomes from all too often being handled with kid gloves simply because she cannot see.

"And Roland," she utters, feeling his hand still underneath hers. "He's never been without you, has he?"

She knows he's looking at her, can feel the weight of his gaze. The intensity of it tugs deep and low in her abdomen.

"No," he admits, his voice now a ragged whisper. "And I've never been without him. Not for more than a few minutes."

He's like the parent of a newborn stepping outside without the baby for the first time, needing to check the monitor every three minutes to assure himself that nothing has gone wrong.

"Yet you left him with Henry tonight. Why?"

Sweat dots her forehead as she moves to stand on new ground, on a landscape that beckons her with whispers of velvet, a world she's denied herself since she lost the only other man who dared to see her as a woman, the man who gave her Henry. His hand clasps hers then, the rough, inviting texture of it making her hot and cold at the same time.

"I think you know why, Regina."

His whisper caresses her intimately, making the restaurant around them melt into an unfocused haze of pastels. Oh, God. She's both ready for and terrified by this.

The check arrives, and they leave without dessert, a wordless understanding building between them that sucks them together like a vacuum. Her hand stays in his until they reach his car, Ms. Belle strolling silently beside them as Robin helps her into the seat before opening the back door for the labrador to bound inside. The drive to her place is silent, but their hands find each other, her body tingling as his touch hones in on erogenous zones she never knew existed.

They park, and he kills the engine, but neither of them make a move to exit. The air inside the CRV is a moist and heavy aphrodisiac, one that nudges her closer, one that has him shifting on his hip to face her, one that prompts her to let out a sound she's never heard herself make as his palm cups her face and his nose rubs up against hers. Her fingers trace the lines of his cheekbones, caress the rough texture of his stubble, stubble he's told her used to be somewhere between a dark blonde and light brown but now possesses more that it's fair share of gray, stubble she wants to feel on her, pressed against her, in her mouth and grazing places on her body she dare not voice just yet.

But she's burning. God, she's burning up alive for this man.

His breath on her lips tastes like a promise, spicy and alluring, the texture of his mouth as it brushes her own one of dreams and soft leather, one she can't help but sample as her lips part and tease.

"Regina."

Her name sounds like heaven, she thinks before all thoughts are pushed from her mind and his mouth claims her own in a desperate petition. She turns her body into the kiss, reaching out for the woolen texture of his shirt, tasting hints of pork medallions and marsala on his tongue, feeling her bones liquefy as he teases and sucks her mouth. He deepens their kiss, moaning into her, making her mind cascade into tides of rich burgundy that wrap her limbs in silken cords even as they free her body to his touch. His hands tremble as they slide down the sides of her neck, taking up a feather light position on her collar bone, a position that has her pressing her breasts towards him, into him, making him rasp in a manner that lets her know he's just as affected by what they're doing as she is.

The pungent scent of mutual arousal is overwhelming.

"You know," he finally utters, his breath every bit as labored as hers. "I do believe you promised me a drink earlier this evening."

She tries to swallow, finding the maneuver far more difficult than usual, her fingers still fisting into his shirt, her femininity thrumming a pulsating rhythm repeatedly against the seam of her jeans.

"Yes," she finally utters, every muscle she has turning to putty as his forehead touches down on hers. "I believe I did."


	3. Chapter 3

He tastes like champagne.

The kiss is lazy and languid, one that is very effectively extending her post-sex buzz in a way that makes her wish she weren't too tired for another round. They'd ushered in the new year with him inside of her for the first time, both of them straining to remain as quiet as possible as their boys camped out in the loft on the other side of the house.

One palm strokes her back, his skin still heated but now cooling under the sheen of sweat they created in the most beautiful way possible.

"You're amazing."

His tone is ragged, deep, still thick like molasses, and it works its way into the pit of her belly, tickling where he still rests inside of her, spent and sated yet somehow still a perfect fit.

"You're not too bad yourself."

Her voice feels foreign to her, trudging its way up her larynx, still weighted with the after-effects of her orgasms, still tasting distinctly of him. He chuckles before rolling back on top of her, his beard tracing a myriad of sketches along her jaw and ear that match the ones still imprinted along the planes of her body. She wonders if they're visible, this intimate artwork sketched by the soft quills of intimacy. Are they red? Pink? A muted purple? Or are they visible only in her mind upon the same canvas on which she sees him?

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?"

Her heart stills as softly calloused fingers forge a winding trail towards her breasts, still bare and eager, prompting her nipples to strain towards him with a passion she's never before known.

"No," she answers. He pauses just over her ribcage, his lips hovering just over her skin.

"Then allow me to remedy that immediately."

His voice has dropped, once again carrying that throaty timbre that conveys the absolute maleness of him. She shivers upon impact.

"Your neck is a wonder," he continues, tracing the lines of her throat with his index finger. Her head falls back into the pillow instinctively, baring as much skin to his touch as possible. "Elegant, alabaster." His lips make a circular shape just over her pulse point, coming together in a kiss with an agonizing slowness that makes her toes curl into his mattress. "You taste like vanilla here, like a vanilla aged to perfection, rich with promise, utterly delectable."

It feels like tiny fingers are pulsing along her spinal column, teasing and tickling her until she arches up into his chest. Swirls of amber spill across her mind, reminiscent of the lingering aftertaste of sandalwood he has imprinted upon her-inside her and out.

"Then there are your ears," he murmurs, his tone low and private. "Perfect little nuggets, just right for my mouth." He caresses her lobe with his tongue, drawing a gasp from her that sparkles across her nerves. "They tease me, you know, these little appetizers, make my body growl for more of you, for the main courses."

"Oh?"

It's all she can manage as one finger traces the edge of her pubic hair. His teeth nip her earlobe, his tongue soothing the skin in its wake, and she's sinking again, sinking into the velvety abyss of Robin, an abyss which envelops her from the outside in, leaving no part of her untouched or wanting.

"Yes." His kissing the swell of her right breast now, his finger still wreaking havoc in the region just above her inner thighs. "I'm having a hard time not devouring all of you at once."

"Then why don't you?"

Her words ride on top of breathy pants she can't control.

"Because I don't want to miss anything."

His mouth swerves right, trailing kisses where her breast meets her ribs before curving around its underside. She's aching again, aching for him, needing his thickness to alleviate the dull throbbing between her legs. Her hips raise, seeking his fingers, but he tugs them upwards to her left breast instead, drawing broken circles around her nipple that make her bite her lower lip.

"Your breasts are a feast."

She chuckles at this before her mirth is cut off by his mouth. He's sucking her now, taking her peak into his mouth with what borders on urgency.

"Your nipples are a fine red wine," he utters, the raspiness in his tone alerting her to what his lower body now speaks rather than whispers. "A syrah, or perhaps a merlot, earthy, full-bodied, meant to be sipped and savored over the course of the evening."

"The evening is over, you realize," she observes, noting that the time is nearing one a.m. He pauses, and she feels the smile in his voice before he switches breasts.

"A mere technicality."

Then her left nipple is in his mouth and the time is all but forgotten. He is maddeningly unrushed, nibbling, teasing, licking until a throaty moan pushes up from inside of her, one unbidden but ripe with need. She smells her own arousal as it brews in regions crying out for attention.

"Then there's your stomach."

Her breath hitches on a mixture of disbelief, laughter and need.

"Don't scoff," he states as one hand clasps her wrists and places them above her head. "Your stomach is amazing." She jumps as his beard tickles her navel, making him chuckle into her abdomen. "It turns me on like you wouldn't believe."

"Why?"

Kisses are planted from one hip bone to the other, his soft restraint against her wrists only heightening the sensation until she thinks her head might explode.

"Because it's beautiful, just like the rest of you."

Mist forms against her eyelids, making thoughts run into each other as her heart and body collide. The explosion is beautiful, bright colors dotted against a black leather landscape of want coiling just beneath where his mouth works her over.

"It's also where you carried Henry," he murmurs. "Just under your heart, just over where you gave him life." He pauses, and she feels his chin hover against her. "It's an essential part of who you are, Regina."

An actual tear breaks free, and she feels its crystalline path as it drips into her hair.

"God, Robin." She feels him smile against her hip. Then his nose burrows into her pubic hair, his tongue teasing the sensitive flesh at its roots, prompting her to open her legs to him in a silent plea for more.

His head dips lower, and she feels his breath against her core. A thousand pinpricks scale up her body, scattering beams of light across her mind's eye as her flesh holds its breath in anticipation.

"And this…" His tongue laps her hood, her outer flesh, teasing her until it finally settles on her clitoris. "I have no adequate words for this part of you."

She doesn't care if he does, as long as he keeps kissing her like this, licking her, sucking her, making her buck into his mouth as he releases her wrists so his hands can open her further. Her fingers find his hair, its coarse texture now as much a part of her as her own, and she rocks her hips to the rhythm he's creating, one increasing in both tempo and pitch until her thoughts are helplessly tangled in a web of hot need.

"You taste like heaven," he whispers. "Like the ocean, like life. I could feast on you all day."

His words are the sweetest of poisons, and they snake up her veins until she explodes at their impact, crying out in a whimper as floodgates of sensation are breached. Her orgasm is scalding, making her sweat all over, yet he continues to devour her, to lap at her until she can't take it anymore and begins to push him away.

"Kiss me," she insists, and he moves up from between her legs, allowing her to clasp his face between her palms before dragging his mouth up to hers. She kisses him with everything she has, her soul blossoming into pinks and yellows as his tongue strokes her own. She tastes the sea on his tongue, knowing it's her but lost in the imagery he's painted in her mind. She sees herself as a canvas on which he's painted love's most intimate strokes, strokes she'll trace along his chest, his neck, his penis until he collapses into her just as she has shattered into him. They draw back in order to breathe, staring at each other, one pair of eyes seeing, the other sensing in ways only she can.

"I love you."

His words melt into her like warm butter, and she kisses him again, pressing every ounce of feeling she can into his mouth.

"I love you, too."

She tastes salt, knowing his own tears are now mixing with her own, and she drinks them in like a heady cocktail, a mulled wine of emotion that warms her from the inside out.

"Marry me."

The words are so soft they feel like tufts of cotton, and she's unsure of who just spoke them until she tastes their residue on her own lips. The dusky haze in her mind evaporates as the reality of what she just asked him hits her hard, and she wishes she could see him right now, wishes she knew how he was looking at her, if he's shocked, if he's uncomfortable, if she's just ruined the most beautiful moment of her life save the birth of her son.

"Alright."

She shakes herself, her fingers flying to his face as she feels the lines around his eyes-lines creased upward, ones that mirror the smile she traces next along his mouth. She laughs then, the kind of laugh that is accompanied by tears, and he joins her as he pulls her as close as he can, his own need pressed against her leg.

"Alright?"

"Yes," he grins. "Unless you'd rather take back the offer."

He's watching her, she realizes, and she thinks she must be smiling like an idiot. She shakes her head and wraps her arms more securely around his neck, needing him as badly as her lungs need air.

"Not a chance," she states.

"Thank God."

He's kissing her then, a kiss more brilliant and complete than any they've shared, one that tastes of new beginnings and the promise of the unknown seasoned with the salt of their bodies.

"I'm going to make love to you, Regina," he breathes, his words caressing her with a smoke hinting at a blaze that makes her quiver. "Thoroughly, deeply…" He spreads her open and slides inside of her, taking his time until he's nuzzled into just the right spot. "And for the rest of our lives."

She's submerged in waves of feeling and wonder, lost in a sea of ever-shifting colors that reach into the hidden depths of her soul until she's wet all over.

"Yes," she utters as he begins to move within her, making her see stars from a galaxy just discovered, one visible only to them as they crest into each other yet again.


	4. Chapter 4

She's exquisitely chilled, her skin slick with the sweat of anticipation, her nakedness quivering as a slight breeze billows into their homemade cabana. He's assured her that the sheets are drawn, that no one can see them, even if a trespasser were to stumble into this private little enclave of beach they've claimed as their own. Yet a thrill courses through her at the mere thought of what they're doing.

She feels exposed, cherished, deliciously seduced, and completely wanton.

"Mrs. Locksley…"

The way he mutters her new title pulls a smile from her depths as something soft draws a slow, straight path up her right leg. A flower of some sort, she reasons as a musky, tropical scent teases her senses in more ways than one.

"Hmmm?" Her drawl is low and lazy, as heavy as limbs that are currently sucked into the soft blankets Robin had crafted into a makeshift bed.

"Are you awake?"

The flower halts just at the juncture of her thighs, making her knees flex instinctively. Somewhere just beyond the fabric walls of their private little haven, the surf crashes on to the shore, creating a continual soundtrack for whatever comes next. He'd undressed her slowly, taking his time sliding off her bikini, kissing her all over both before and after exposure. Then he'd massaged her with lavender oil, unknotting muscles still stiff from travel, paying extra attention to her buttocks and feet until she was practically purring and half-asleep.

"Maybe."

His chuckle colors her world burnt orange, the color she imagines the sun to be, even though she knows it's probably a brilliant yellow this early in the afternoon. But it's her honeymoon, and since she can't see the sky for herself, she'll paint it however she wants in her mind-a cascade of purples, reds, and oranges hovering over water so blue it would hurt to actually physically take in its beauty.

A sea is the same blue she imagines Robin's eyes to be-the blue of life and light.

"Maybe?" His tone thickens as he leans over her body lying prone on the blankets. His breath heightens her awareness of him, her nipples hardening at his mere proximity. "What sort of answer is that?"

The flower now traces circles around her breasts, deliberately avoiding her nipples, and her back arches in response as her breasts begin to ache.

"It depends on what you have in mind," she manages, stretching her arms out to either side of her, feeling sand against the fingertips of her right hand.

"Well in that case…"

He shifts again until he's straddling her, until his arousal nudges against her navel, until his mouth begins a heated journey across her clavicle down the center of her chest that has her hips and thighs tingling. She marvels at the feel of him, at his strength tempered by softness, like steel encased in warm silk. His fingers tease one nipple while the flower takes care of the other, and Regina bites her lower lip to keep from crying out into the wind.

"There's no one around, love," he whispers into her neck, only accentuating the delicious heated chill she's been experiencing. "Don't be afraid to make some noise."

His words do something to her, something that feels inherently naughty, but her mouth opens, unleashing a moan that's been pressing to be let out. He lowers his mouth then, and it lands just above her nipple, close enough to feel his lips as they form words that make her pant.

"That's my girl."

He takes her breast into his mouth, and she cries out into his shoulder as his body begins to rock against hers, as his hardness nudges against the softness of her belly. She wants him inside her, and she hopes he won't make her wait much longer. Long fingers reaches out to stroke him as he spreads her open and traces the flower along folds now heady with exposure to fresh air. Her breaths come in puffs, her hand clenching around him sporadically as her hips jerk in a similar arrhythmic fashion.

"Someone's impatient," he murmurs, his tongue now dancing over her abdomen in a matching pattern to what the flower is doing down below.

"Glad you noticed," she manages, practically bucking him off of her body when his finger actually makes contact with her rim. Her mind is swirling now, like too many paints spilled at once, creating a whirlpool of color that keeps tugging her into an oblivion she craves. She hears him hiss and feels the damp stickiness of him ease out and onto her hand. "I don't think I'm the only one, either."

His chuckle is throaty as she spreads his precum over his tip, until it stops, until he can do nothing but breathe and swear, until only her name tumbles over his lips as his fingers press inside of her and the flower is cast aside, until he's inside her, and she cries out at the perfection of it, of him, of this, of a life with this man and their boys, the life she'd never expected when her sight was taken and she was left to live in the shadows.

She comes first, he makes certain she always comes first, and she's still convulsing when she feels his coarse grunt against her neck as his beard marks her and his passion fills her womb.

"I love you," he pants, his forehead hot and slick as it comes to rest upon hers. She nods, too gone for words at the moment, her throat as spent as the rest of her. He pulls out of her slowly, and she feels him move to the side to wipe himself off before sliding the towel between her legs. He then stretches out beside her, pulling a soft, light blanket over their lower bodies as he draws her into his chest.

The ocean's soft roar lulls her senses, the smell of salt and water blending perfectly with the lingering scent of sex, creating an intimate cocoon that encases them both. His fingers find her hair, and they take up a slow massage on her scalp that prompts her to hum her approval.

"So you like my surprise, then?"

She laughs, nodding before words can take form.

"Yes. It's perfect."

He'd refused to tell her where he'd arranged for them to honeymoon, his argument being that since she'd planned the wedding, planning the honeymoon was the least he could do. She'd indulged him begrudgingly, hearing the subdued note of excitement in his voice every time he teased her about where they were going, although she had nearly lost it when she discovered Henry knew of Robin's plans while she didn't. Her son had convinced her that she'd love her surprise and that her husband-to-be truly wanted to take her breath away when they arrived at their destination.

The private beach house in Virgin Gorda he'd rented for them had done just that.

He'd whispered how he wanted her to feel the sand in her toes and the sea lapping at her feet, that he wanted island breezes to caress her neck and the scent of flowers to perfume her every step. He'd chosen this place so she could experience and relish its beauty in ways that didn't require sight, and as the warm water of their pool splashed around them as they'd made love last night, she'd held him as close as she could, thanking whomever could hear her for this man who'd somehow waltzed into her life.

She then hears Ms. Belle stir just outside their cabana.

"Robin…"

His name drifts up her larynx, prompting him to stroke her spine open-palmed.

"Hmmm?"

She reaches towards his face, touching to see if his eyes are open or closed. His lashes tickle her fingers as they blink in rapid succession, and he gathers her fingers into his own, bringing them to his lips for a gentle kiss.

"Did you need something?"

She swallows, her heart pounding a bit harder as her sentence takes shape.

"How would you feel about having another baby?"

His body jerks under hers, and she knows she has his full attention now.

"Regina," he breathes, allowing her head to slide back on to the beach pillow as he presses himself up onto his elbows. "Are you...are you pregnant?" His words are as breathless as she feels.

She shakes her head, touching his face, soothing lines of astonishment that seem to melt into her touch.

"No," she says. "I'm not. I wouldn't go off the pill without talking to you about it." She hears his exhale as her fingers flutter over his expression. He's surprised-stunned, perhaps. But not upset. Good.

"I just wondered what you would think about it if I did."

He turns to his side so he can see and touch her more easily.

"I know it sounds crazy," she continues, feeling suddenly self-conscious. "Why would a blind woman want to take on the challenge of raising a baby again?"

His finger touches down on her lips.

"It doesn't sound crazy, Regina. Not at all. You have the heart of a mother."

His tone is so quiet that it's nearly lost in the surf, but she hears every word. They pound into her heart with the force of a tidal wave.

"I had to hire a full-time nanny with Henry," she continues, her fingers still caressing his cheek. "I know I have to help with some things, I mean…"

"You were a single mother," he cuts in. "A single mother left to raise a child alone by a jerk who has no idea what he's missed out on in life." He pauses, leaning down to kiss her. His lips are soft, and she opens her mouth to him as they indulge in a lover's kiss, as his hand traces a line up and down one of her arms. He draws back then, his breath still heated, his nose nudging hers as her fingers glide into his hair. "If we had a baby, you'd have me, we'd have the boys, we could hire a part-time babysitter if needed, but by God you wouldn't have to do it alone."

She pauses, allowing his words to trickle into her mind and body one at a time.

"So you're okay with trying?" she utters, pressing herself up slightly to make certain she's understood him. "To get pregnant, I mean?"

She feels his smile caress her.

"I'd love to have a baby with you, Mrs. Locksley."

Tears prick her eyelids, and she laughs, a bubbly, giddy sort of laugh that tickles as it skitters up her throat. His hand cups her stomach as he rolls her on to her back.

"I can just see a little girl with dark hair and eyes just like yours, just like Roland's."

She cups his face with her hands, smiling like an idiot as yellow sunlight spills over her insides.

"We could have another boy, you know," she muses, laughing again as his fingers move to tickle her ribs.

"Yes, we could," he breathes, stopping as she playfully whacks his shoulder. "God, you have impeccable aim for a blind woman."

She's grinning at him, rubbing her palm over the scratchiness of his beard, envisioning a baby with hair the shade of honey and eyes the color of the sea.

"I think it's your aim we need to be concerned about," she says, feeling his loud chuckle reverberate into her bones. He's on top of her then, his penis still soft, but his intentions laser sharp.

"Then I suppose I'll need all the practice I can get," he breathes just before further conversation is lost in the tangling of bodies and limbs swept up in an incoming tide. "After all, I do take my aim seriously."


	5. Chapter 5

Regina has always hated the smell of urine.

She'd dealt with it when changing diaper and diaper, had powered through her aversion while cleaning Henry's potty chair and washing pee-soaked undies, her love of being a mother overcoming her gag reflex more often than not. She's managed to keep it to herself whenever Roland has the occasional accident, knowing that even though her step-son cannot not see her expression of disgust, he can sense her moods just as well as she can sense his.

She refuses to let him think he's disappointed her somehow; God knows the boy has had enough disappointments in his life.

But neither Roland nor Henry are with her at the moment, so her nose wrinkles up as she forces herself to breathe in and out steadily, her foot continuing to tap nervously against the cool tile floor. She almost wishes the phone's timer would tick so she could methodically count down seconds–agonizing, possibly life-changing seconds that pass slowly as time stretches itself into a luxurious tempo that frustrates her to no end.

"We're nearly there."

His voice is solid and warm, just as he is, and she grips his bicep as he leans in to brush a kiss against her temple.

"How much longer?" she asks, hating how anxious she sounds.

"About 30 seconds," he answers, and she exhales through her mouth, swallowing as best she can when her tongue feels like sandpaper. He hands her a glass of water, somehow sensing exactly what she needs, but she nearly spits it out when she hears his breath catch, knowing that he knows something, something he can see that she cannot.

She manages to swallow and set the glass down on the sink with a shaky hand just before his palms cover her own, warming her, holding her steady as he leans in kisses the tip of her nose.

"We're pregnant," he breathes, the emotion in his voice shoving the smell of urine a million miles away. He then gathers her close, kisses her hair, and she clings to him, crying through her laughter, wondering just what sort of wonderful mess they've gotten themselves into as he carries her from the bathroom to their bed.


	6. Chapter 6

She heard her little man first, the light, cautious footfalls pattering closer to her from the kitchen that were almost perfectly in synch with those of his faithful canine. Then his scent began to tickle her senses, a combination of earth, dog, and boy accentuated by the chocolate he'd evidently sneaked out of the candy drawer when he thought no one was looking. She'd let him think he'd gotten away with it this time, although she couldn't help but wonder if there were tell-tale smudges on his mouth and cheeks.

She stretched lazily on the couch, her hand rubbing the firm, small baby bump that served as her stomach these days, moaning as her lower back lengthened and popped.

"You awake, Gina?"

His voice was congested from allergies gone haywire.

"Yes, sweetheart," she murmured extending her hand in his direction. She smiled as his palm found hers, all sticky fingers and childish warmth, and she pushed herself up into a sitting position to make room for him. He crawled up beside her as Little John took up his perch beside Miss Belle on the floor, prompting her to wrap one arm around him as he snuggled in close "How are you feeling?"

"Stuffy," Roland answered as she stroked his curls. She adored their texture, loved how touching them soothed her, how they wrapped around her fingers in a manner neither Robin's nor Henry's straight locks did. "I wish I could take off my nose and empty it out."

"I know, baby," she murmured. "I know. Fall allergies are rough." He sniffed at this, and she chuckled before kissing him lightly on the forehead.

"But I have them worse than anybody," Roland muttered, earning himself another light kiss as she continued to stroke his hair. "And it's not fair. It's harder when you can't smell. You know that."

The words hit her deep and solid, and she held him a little tighter, thinking to herself that no, it wasn't fair that her son by marriage has been temporarily deprived of a second sense when he already lived permanently without one.

"I know," she agreed, maneuvering her body so they were sitting in a more upright position. "It is harder when you can't smell."

He sniffed again, and she grabbed a kleenex out of her pocket in hopes he hadn't already wiped his nose on his sleeve.

"Thanks, Mommy," he said. Her heart nearly stopped beating as the words registered, and she felt him stiffen as realization of what he'd just called her sank in. "I mean…Gina."

He sounded scared, and she wouldn't have that. Not at all.

"Roland," she muttered. "I don't mind if you…" She paused, clearing her throat before continuing. "If you want to call me _Mommy_."

She and Robin had discussed what Roland should call her in the wake of their marriage and the fact that there was now a new baby on the way. They'd agreed that there was no issue when it came to Henry, that at seventeen, Robin would always be _Robin_ to her son, although the relationship the two of them continued to form as stepdad and stepson was both rich and beautiful. But Roland at age six and a half was a different story. They'd wondered if he'd want to use the same title for her as his younger sibling would, especially since he had no real memories of his mother. The last thing either she or Robin wanted was for him to feel that he was loved any less when their attention became more divided.

"You don't mind?"

He coughed, and she held him closer, stroking the cotton of his long sleeved t-shirt as he touched her face. He was studying her expression, to see if she was serious, and she remained perfectly still as he did so.

"No," she returned, kissing the sweet fingers that remained on her lips. "I don't mind. In fact, I'd like it a lot."

She heard him breathe, ached at the raspiness setting up in his chest as she brushed curls from his forehead.

"Even with the new baby?"

She found his hand and gently pressed it to her stomach, smiling as his fingers skidded over her belly.

"Especially with the new baby," she stated. "He or she will need a big brother who knows the ropes around here."

She heard Little John stretch out beside Miss Belle and grinned, thinking to herself that the dogs were mirroring the position taken up by her and her son.

"Not if he can see, he won't," Roland muttered. "Then he'll be ahead of me."

She sat up taller at this, allowing her thumbs to trace the worried lines of his eyebrows.

"Is that what you think?" she asked, feeling him shuffle beside her. "That if the baby can see, that he or she will leave you behind?"

He nods, and she draws his forehead to her own.

"Not going to happen, mister," she said, sensing a tenuous trembling in his lower lip. "Being blind does not equal being second best, especially in this house."

His arms snaked around her neck as hot tears pressed against her eyelids.

"Will you be sad?" he whispers, his breath warm against her neck. "If the baby is blind like us?"

Her heart squeezed until her chest hurt.

"Yes," she finally stated with a sigh. "I would. I wish both of us could see, Roland. Don't you?"

He sighed before nodding again.

"Yeah," he said with a sniff. "I do."

She resumed stroking his hair as he coughed into her chest before settling his head just over her heart. His small hand returned to her stomach, and he drew a pattern of sorts on top of it that tickled.

"I hope he can see," he said. "Two blind people in one family is enough, I guess."

She laughed, and he joined her until coughing won out yet again.

"I won't love him or her any more than I love you, you know."

The air thickened as she felt his body stiffen.

"Promise?"

Miss Belle snorted beside her, and she rested one hand on the Labrador's head while her other caressed her second son's back.

"I promise," she whispered. "You and I have a special connection, Roland, one that can never be broken. We understand each other in a way nobody else can."

His body relaxed into hers then, making her ache in a place she reserved just for him.

"You're right," he muttered, his voice hushed as if they shared an important secret. "We do."

Her husband's scent then hit her out of nowhere, the rich, outdoorsy essence of him washing over her in waves from the direction of the kitchen as Roland's hand stilled on her belly. She wished she could touch Robin's face, feel his expression, discern the rate of his pulse as he witnessed a private moment between his wife and his son that had been several months in the making.

Yet she knew he was smiling, she could feel it, as if his dimples were reaching out to her from across the room and stroking her insides.

"Thanks, Mommy," Roland breathed, stretching her new title into a yawn that was obnoxiously contagious. "You're the best."

"The feeling's mutual, kiddo," she sighed, feeling warm all over. "And it always will be."


	7. Chapter 7

"Oh my God."

The hitch in his breathing stilled her heart, and she squeezed his hand, needing to know exactly what he was seeing.

"Is everything okay?" she asked, cursing her blindness a million ways at once as her hand moved to the top of her growing belly. She shifted on the table, hating the crunch of paper rustling beneath her. "Is the baby-?"

"Beautiful," Robin interrupted, his tone as raspy as his beard. "Our baby is beautiful, Regina."

He drew her hand to his lips, and she sighed at the familiar texture now damp with fresh tears.

"Tell me," she breathed. "Please."

Her mind sought images denied her, filling itself with expectation and wonder to the point that she almost couldn't breathe.

"I can see the head," Robin answered. "It's perfect. And that's a leg, I think."

She imaged the feel of tiny fingers wrapping around one of her own, revelling in the memory of softer than soft skin and the sweet scent of new life only babies possess. Then the child inside of her fluttered, making her smile.

"Can you see him moving?" she asked. "It feels like he's trying to avoid the camera."

His low chuckle made her toes tingle.

"Yes, although _she_ doesn't appear to be camera shy," Robin replied, making her snicker in response to their congenial game of gender tug-of-war. "She's an active little booger-a ballerina, perhaps."

"Or a soccer player," Regina said. "Definitely a kicker."

"Ballerina's kick like mad," Robin stated. "And girls can play soccer just as well as boys, you know."

She laughed before sniffing back emotions so strong she wondered if they would lift her from the table.

"Everything looks great," the ultrasound technician who smelled like apples cut in. Her tone was so chipper it reminded Regina of Snow White, and she half-expected the woman to launch into a rendition of _Whistle While you Work_. "Measurements are perfect. Development is right on target. Would you like to know who's right? If you're having a boy or a girl?"

Her chest expanded as her eyes began to sting from the combination of strong disinfectant and fresh tears. Robin's hand squeezed hers again, and she clasped it for all she was worth.

"Yes," she answered, her heart dancing an out of control can-can. "I definitely want to know."

"You , too, Dad?" the tech questioned. God, she sounded so young.

"Oh, yes," Robin replied, his tone giving away the broad smile on his face. "Me, too."

"Alright, then," the tech continued as she moved the wand around Regina's belly. It was an odd feeling, one that teased between a tickle and a massage. Then the search came to a stand-still, and Robin drew a sharp breath.

"What?" Regina asked, straining her neck in the direction of the screen even though she couldn't see it. "What do you see?"

"It's what I don't see that's so telling," Robin answered, the smile in his voice practically screaming at her. She went boneless as every sense she had honed in on her child's identity, the rightness of it all rolling over her in waves.

"Yep," the tech agreed with a lilting laugh. "Congratulations, Mr. and Mrs. Locksley. It's a little girl."

A girl. A daughter. Her child took a more definitive shape in her mind as she envisioned the textures and sounds of tutus and ruffles, her heart pressing against her ribs so fiercely she feared one might crack.

"God," Robin managed, his voice broken and thick. "A little girl. And she's sucking her thumb, Regina, just like Roland used to do."

The love in his tone was so strong she could almost smell it, and she allowed it to engulf both herself and the baby growing inside of her, a daughter who already had her father wrapped around fingers tinier than she could imagine.

"We'll have to tell Roland that," she muttered, taken aback by the raspiness in her own voice. "That will thrill him, having something in common with his little sister." She paused then, a chill finding her in the midst of warmth, like an unexpected gust of winter interrupting summer's dying grasp. "There's no way to know if...I mean...if she can see?"

Silence.

Robin breathed, a machine beeped, and the tech cleared her throat as paper rustled under Regina's legs.

"There is no reason to suspect your daughter has any type of visual impairment," the tech replied, her tone tinged with emotion Regina could tell she was trying to keep under control. "That being said, I cannot guarantee that she'll have perfect vision. I wish I could, but it's just too early to tell."

Robin squeezed her hand again as a well of hot tears streaked down the side of her face. She heard one drip onto the padded table, and she closed her unseeing eyes, willing her daughter's to work as well as both her father's and Henry's.

"However, there are no indicators of any sort of birth defects or abnormalities at this stage," the tech added, her tone now buoyant with hope. "So the odds are that her vision will be perfectly fine."

 _The odds are,_ Regina thought to herself. The odds hadn't exactly been good to her over they years, but then again, she'd given birth to Henry, her sole light in a dark existence for over sixteen years. Then she'd met Robin and Roland, and that brightness expanded inside her, chasing away both loneliness and self-doubt that liked to linger in shadows. So the odds might have robbed her of sight once upon a time, but they'd replaced it with people she'd never have known had her vision not deserted her. People she loved. People who loved her. People who were now her family.

 _The odds are,_ the Snow White tech had assured her. So for now, she'd hold onto those odds for both herself and her daughter with all she was worth.


End file.
